Dubious Omens
by Coal15
Summary: Set a year or so after the almost-apocalypse Aziraphale and Crowley socialize over baked goods.


_What becomes of a celestial being when all of creation abandons him? _Aziraphale wondered while arranging his new flat, 'Carefully Arranged Stacks Of Books' being the primary decorative aesthetic. _If indeed we have been entirely abandoned._ Aziraphale still wasn't sure on that count, and it made him uneasy.

Though Crowley had, in no uncertain terms, embraced his new lack of demonic employment by finding employment. Specifically, taking a job at a vinyl record shop frequented by a smattering of middle aged folk and a sizable population of twentysomethings, all of whom seemed to regard themselves as a more _authentic _breed of human than their spotify-dependent peers.

_What twats,_ he thought whenever they arrived in herds, presumably to provide one another an audience. _Can't do bloody anything without an audience, can we? Noooooo . . ._

But today was a day off for Crowley. He'd been given four of them in a row, owing to the straight ten he'd worked when the owner fell monstrously ill. A right good fellow, his boss.

"Oh, what fun!" said Aziraphale upon hearing the news. "I shall close the bookshop and we can 'paint the town red' as they say. There's a new bakery just opened up around the corner from me, and it's _marvelous, "_ he cooed into the phone, practically tasting cakes and pastries as he spoke the words.

It is important to note, at this point, that Aziraphale and Crowley had spent rather less time together than one might expect in the year or so since averting apocalypse. This oddity could be blamed on their previous 6,000 years of life on earth.

In all that great pile of time, spending too much of it together was, while not forbidden, _extremely dangerous_ insofar as raising the suspicions of their respective masters. Imagine running barefoot through a miles-long field of tall grass and an undisclosed number of rattlesnakes. Possible one might go the whole distance and emerge unharmed, yes, but only a spectacular fool would make the attempt.

In short, the pair was used to going decades or even _centuries _between visits, and it was apparently taking moment to shake off the habit. Months and months could pass with hardly a phone call or a few strolls through the park.

"Brilliant," Crowley replied. "I'll be 'round to yours about, say . . . 2ish?" He hung up the phone without bothering to ask if there might perhaps be an absurd selection of Baked Goods waiting for him by the time he arrived. For such a reserved and cautious creature Aziraphale had a near total lack of self control when it came to food, sushi and fine pastry being particular favorites. There was no doubt in Crowley's mind the angel's kitchen counter would be laden with open boxes of spectacular treats, and probably a good while before 2, as well.

_I'll bring the drinks._

"I've done it again, Crowely," Aziraphale sighed as his adored demon friend stepped over the threshold. "I've gone simply _mad _for baked treats."

"Bought one of everything in the shop, didn't you?" Crowely asked with a cheeky grin.

"Almost." Aziraphale went on as the pair walked into the kitchen, which boasted a selection of danish, croissants, a baguette with brie and butter cut into quarters, several small confections, some covered in glossy ganache, fruit and berry tartlets, eclairs, and finally two cupcakes, one vanilla, and one a very _very dark _chocolate.

"That meant to be us?" Crowley asked, giving a slight nod in the cupcakes' general direction.

"Oh, um, I guess so," Aziraphale responded bashfully. "In a manner of speaking. A bit of a, a 'representation' if you will."

"Uh-huh," Crowley nodded again as his gaze wandered from one box to another. "Gotta say mate, even for you this is-"

"I know," the skin above Aziraphale's nose crinkled just so as he shook his head in self-recrimination. "And I even had to _restrain myself _from purchasing a loaf of sourdough . . . also spent a full five minutes trying to decide between the danish and a few cinnamon rolls-oh, I am simply impossible in exceptional bakeries, Crowley! You must never allow me to set foot in one unsupervised ever again!"

"Consider it a promise." Crowely assured him with a slight bow before clasping his hands together. "Now then, where to start?"

A shared baguette, halved tartlet, and two eclairs later the pair stood leaned against the counter whilst sipping a perfectly chilled riesling. Aziraphale was smack in the middle of one anecdote or another when he suddenly veered off topic. "Crowley, your eyes!"

"Hm? Pardon?" asked the confused demon.

"Well they . . . they've gone a bit blue, I think!" He leaned in for a more careful examination. "Yes! Just the slightest bit bleeding in through all that snakey yellow, but it's unmistakable. Blue."

"Oh come off it," Crowely scoffed as he walked into the main room to inspect himself in one of the small wall mounted mirrors. "Well . . ." he breathed, uncertain what else to say. Aziraphale was right. There were indeed a few small but quite noticeable wisps of blue to be seen. "Now what d'you suppose that means, ay?"

"Haven't the foggiest," Aziraphale shrugged, then immediately began fussing with his tie and pocket square.

It must be said that, while the angel was a fussy sort in general, he had a number of different fuss mannerisms specific to particular feelings or provocations. And after 6,000 years of friendship, Crowley knew them _all. _He recognized each one as it appeared, and could thus narrow down its source to a limited number of causes. This was his 'I'm hiding something' fuss.

"Aziraphale," Crowley's newly-bluish eyes narrowed. "Dear, _dear _Aziraphale. You . . . are a crap liar. Always have been. So come on then. Let's have out with it."

Aziraphale squirmed for a moment, then caved, as he always did when Crowley was the one demanding an answer. "Oh, curse you, you _foul demon! _Fine! But first let me just say: I don't _know _anything,really. But this business with your eyes? It may-or _may not-_um, have something to do with this." He held out his left index finger.

"Er . . . how exactly is your left index finger a clue?"

"See, right there?" The angel explained, "I got a paper cut the other day, and it . . . well it _bled." _

"Bled?" Crowley echoed with a concerned frown. "You bled? Like actual red blood?"

"Yes, actual red blood. And also it _really hurt!" _Aziraphale pouted. "A great deal more than such a small injury has any right to!"

Through the amusement and concern, Crowley couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for his delicate-natured friend. _Poor thing. Suffering a paper cut. How does he muddle through?_

The universally disproportionate pain of paper cuts was, in fact, by design. A sharp reminder to humans from the Almighty that they are not, under any circumstance, invulnerable or impervious to harm. Some humans did continue to believe that nothing and no one could ever defeat them in spite of _any _evidence to the contrary, but the rest exercised enough caution in day to day life to keep the species from utterly self-destructing. And the Almighty liked to think his trick with the paper cuts had something to do with it.

"Huh," Crowley mused, swooning down into an armchair. "You're bleeding, I've got blue, what a fine puzzle this is."

"What do you suppose it means?" Aziraphale wondered aloud as he pulled over a nearby chair to sit himself across from Crowley.

The demon pursed his lips and shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe we're turning human."

"Oh dear!" The angel's eyes bulged, horrified. "I certainly hope not!"

"Wouldn't be so awful, would it?" Crowley asked, leaning sideways just enough to stretch his legs straight, off the the side of Aziraphale's chair, crossed at the ankle. "I mean our old bosses want nothing to do with us, we may as well throw in with the human tribe."

"We _already have _thrown in with the human tribe, Crowley, which is precisely the point!" Aziraphale clapped his hands on his knees, feet bouncing frenetically. "If you're right about the next Apocalypse as heaven and hell aligned together against humans-and I rather think you are-then we may very well be the only celestial beings to stand and fight on the side of humanity! The only ones with our respective powers committed to protecting them, the poor vulnerable souls!"

_Dammit, the sodding angel makes a point. _"Uuuurrrrgh," Crowley grumbled. "I suppose. No, no I don't suppose," he corrected himself. "You're right, if and when it happens they'll all likely be doomed without us."

"Oooooooohhhhh deeeeaaaaar . . ."

_And there's his 'emotional distress' fuss, _thought Crowley."Look Aziraphale, before you worry yourself into a panic, remember: we know a witch. And one descended from a long line of witches at that. Got _loads _of power, _and_ she must know scads of other witches. If we are turning mortal I'm sure there's some magical boogity nonsense to stop it."

"Do you think?" Aziraphale asked, still wearing a frown.

"Yeah," the demon insisted with a casual shrug, lacing together his slender fingers. "Must be. But I've still got my powers, can still go all 'wings out,' so for the time being let's just investigate calmly, follow the clues, and in the meantime assume it's _not _so bad as all that."

"And if the clues do lead us in that direction?"

Crowley leaned forward, locking his friend in a stubborn stare. "Scads. Of. Witches. I said it literally seconds ago."

Aziraphale pursed his lips and heaved a deep sigh.

Never one to tolerate his friend's suffering, Crowley stood up and headed for the door, dragging a helpless Aziraphale along behind him.

"Unhand me!" The angel insisted.

"Nope," Crowley chirped. "Sorry, but we already know you can bleed like a human, I will not stand by and watch you have a stroke as well. We're going for a walk."

Aziraphale offered only feeble resistance when Crowley maneuvered his arms into a coat.

"A nice stroll through Garden, maybe pop into a pub after, doesn't that sound nice?" It was a rhetorical question, asked in the same instant that the demon shoved him out the door. "Brilliant. Off we go then."

What the pair didn't know as their worries melted away, soothed by the lovely hues of cheerful summertime blossoms, was that an extremely old book was on its way to Aziraphale's bookshop at that very moment, tucked into the tattered satchel of the most ancient witch on earth. And that this book would become instrumental to their survival through a number of threats and trials, including the eyes and blood situation.

It was titled: The Fairly Confident Guesses of Agness Nutter, Witch's Apprentice.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .


End file.
